Cael pushes at his shoulder, and Roman gives a little, lets the other push and shift them. Roman hides it casually behind how his hand moves to curl at the back of the other teen's head. Holding onto him, tasting him in the kiss. And he tastes like starlight, he tastes earthy and sweet and familiar in a way that he can't quite place. Not until their tongues swirl, chasing each other, fighting, refusing to give up dominance, control. Or, more that Roman needs to make Cael work for it, fight for it. He wants him on edge, pulse racing.

It's a faint scent on his skin, in his mouth, on his tongue. It's lies and it's it's too many places, and it's freedom, a sort of freedom he could never understand, even if he'd tried. And he had. God, but he'd tried. When they part, Roman sucks in a stuttered breath that feels almost too thick in his throat, and the hand that's still on Cael's shoulder doesn't let go. Fingers tighten in his jacket, holding tight as he looks into his eyes.

"Gypsy trash," he breathes it on a shaky exhale. Usually those words are full of contempt, hatred, suspicion. When Roman says them, they're filled with hurt and longing and heartbreak. He almost wants to break him. Almost wants to hurt him, bruise him, taste his blood on his mouth for every time that Peter had hurt him. But the moment hangs still, it stretches as they look into each other's eyes.

That shell he fit into so well, that control and dominance that he wrapped himself up in shattered in pieces between them. Roman had been broken before, he'd kissed a gypsy before, and words still echoed in his head, even if his mother was dead in a room in the White Tower.

A gypsy is a gypsy is a gypsy; they will steal the rings from your fingers and the love from your heart.